


Knock me down

by Builder



Series: Heroverse [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Concussions, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 17:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Steve's injured on a mission.  Bucky takes on the part of caretaker.





	Knock me down

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051.
> 
> Tubthumping is totally Foggy and Matt's song, but it literally came on the radio as I was starting this fic, so I just had to get inspired and include it in here.

_I get knocked down…but I get up again…you’re never gonna keep me down…_

 

Steve’s flat on his back, and the words echo blankly in his head. 

 

What the fuck? 

 

It’s so dusty.

 

And he’s so…tired?

 

__I get knocked down…_ _

__

There’s…is that a hole in the ceiling?  Dilapidated rafters and corrugated metal sheets are busted out of the way to allow a view of the blue sky and a shaft of warm sunlight to hit the floor.

 

A little unorthodox for a skylight. 

 

“Cap?” 

 

Steve’s almost sure he heard the sound with his ears, but he can’t be positive. 

 

Why is he lying on his back? 

 

Steve pushes over to his side, then uses his arms to hoist himself up to seated.  Immediately the world shifts around him, and his hand slips against the dusty concrete.  The floor seems to have become the wall, but he’s still stuck to it…

 

__I get knocked down…_ _

 

Why is that damn song stuck in his head?

 

Isn’t he supposed to be doing something? 

 

“Cap?  Steve?”

 

Yep, definitely supposed to be doing something.

 

“Hey, what happened?”  Footsteps echo toward him.  Nat’s face materializes upside down over him.  “You ok?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”  Steve raises himself up to a sitting position again, and the floor-wall miraculously returns to its original position, though it leaves Steve with a wave of dizziness reverberating through his skull.  Which hurts.

 

“Did you get hit?”

 

“Must have.”  Steve’s voice sounds oddly echoey.

 

“Must have, as in, you’re not sure?” Nat asks, her eyebrows going up. 

 

“It was a pretty hard hit,” Steve admits.  Or at least that’s what he thinks he’s doing, as he still doesn’t remember it.  He picks himself up off the floor, automatically brushing dust from his deep blue suit and freshly polished shield. 

 

“That’s what your helmet’s for, dumbass,” Nat teases him.  But her eyes flick from his face to his hairline, searching for a visible wound. 

 

Steve doesn’t think there is one, but he runs his gloved hands over his head to be sure.

 

“Really, why’d you take off your helmet?” Nat asks.

 

Steve knows the answer to this.  He just can’t make it make any sense in his head because the context has evaporated.  “Better to talk to civilians without it.” 

 

“Oh.  You found the hostages?”

 

Did he?  Steve glances around as quickly as he can, trying to get his bearings back without upsetting the precarious balance of his head on his shoulders.  The more he moves, the more it feels like a brass band it setting up shop in his skull. 

 

The abandoned warehouse is starting to look more familiar now.  That busted-up sheet metal half-wall thing, that’s concealing the posts where the hostages are chained up.  Steve enunciates that to Nat as clearly as he can, then casually palpates the back of his head where it vaguely feels like he’s being smashed repeatedly with a hammer.

 

Now Nat’s saying something, and Steve’s missed the beginning of it.  “…when they’re coming back, but we need to move them now.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Are you ok?” Nat asks, looking concerned again.

 

“Yeah,” Steve assures her.  “Just…still shaking it off.”  Although Steve’s sure that if he shakes anything, especially his head, he’s going to fall over.

 

“Ok, well, finish shaking and cover me.”  Nat draws a gun from the collection on her belt and starts across the warehouse. 

 

Steve keeps pace with her jog, but clenches his teeth together as the motion jostles his stomach.  It’s as if wire-fine neurons have re-woven themselves to as to directly connect his head and abdomen.  One step equals one throb equals one swallowed wave of disgustingness.

 

The scruffy-looking group of coal miners chained up in the corner of the warehouse start whooping and cheering when they see Nat and Steve coming toward them. 

 

“Shh, stop,” Nat commands them.  “They might hear you and come back.” 

 

Steve’s just grateful it’s quieter again.  The sound had been wreaking havoc like drumbeats in his head. 

 

“We saw you get slammed earlier, Cap,” one of the miners says with an Appalachian drawl.  “Didn’t know if we’d be lucky enough to see you come rescue us.”

 

“It wasn’t too bad,” Steve says, trying to convince himself that his words are true.  “You’re all ok?  They haven’t hurt you?”

 

“Not yet,” the miner replies.  “Kept threatening that we’d be the fuel in their new clean energy rig, but, honestly, we’re used to hearing shit like that.”

 

“Well, they probably meant it,” Nat says, using a miniature pulsar beam on her wrist to start cutting through the chains around one man’s wrists.  “HYDRA’s no joke.  But what the hell they’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere…It is more like a tease than a threat.”

 

“Hey, this isn’t nowhere,” the miner pipes back up.  “We live here.”

 

“Yeah, she didn’t…” Steve has to blink hard to ground himself and regain his train of thought.  “…didn’t mean it.”

 

“You gonna help or stand there?” Nat barks in response.

 

“Oh.  Help,” Steve replies.  He uses the edge of his shield to bash the chains holding one the nearest miner’s feet to the thick concrete post.  The resulting clang is enough to make Steve want to curl up with his hands over his ears.

 

“Yikes.  Maybe I don’t want you to help,” Nat says, cringing herself at the loud noise.  “Just stand watch and see if the creeps in the gas masks come back… oh shit.”

 

Steve follows Nat’s gaze and immediately lifts his shield in front of his chest.  Two black-clad figures with bulky masks over their faces are sprinting for the cluster of hostages.  They don’t immediately look harmful, but with the threat of alien tech and something akin to nuclear power, no chances can be taken.

 

Nat’s drawing another gun out of its holster, one that shoots paralyzing beams instead of bullets.  “I’m on ‘em,” she says.  “Keep working on the hostages.”

 

“Roger,” Steve replies. 

 

The gun fires loudly, and as the sound reverberates through Steve’s head, his vision blurs.  He takes out a good chunk of the concrete floor before he’s able to adjust the edge of his shield and bust through more of the chains. 

 

The second gunshot sends Steve’s hands to his knees.  He struggles to hold onto clarity as he swallows his stomach back down into its proper place. 

 

__I get knocked down…_ _

 

Why is that stupid song still hanging around?  He’s got much more important things to think about…like trying his damndest not to barf, and cutting chains, and covering Nat’s six…

 

“They didn’t unleash some weird bio-weapon on you, did they?”  Nat’s at his shoulder, poking him back to standing upright.

 

“Don’t think so.”

 

“That’s good,” Nat says, going back to lighting up chains with her mini pulsar.  “But you’re acting weird, you know?”

 

Steve shrugs.  Through the fuzz in his head, he’s starting to suspect what might be wrong.  He doesn’t want to think about it, though.  He’d die of embarrassment if he had to go to a head injury safety lecture for forgetting to put on his goddamn helmet. 

 

“Ok, that’s it, freeing up the last of them.  Two operatives incapacitated, doesn’t look like there are any more,” Nat’s saying. 

 

Steve’s confused at first.  Then it dawns on him that she’s talking into her comm, probably with Fury on the other end.  But Steve should be on the call too.  He feels for it with clumsy fingers, but the little piece of metal and plastic that should be poised on the edge of his ear canal is gone.  It probably fell out when he hit the ground earlier. 

 

“Alright.  We’re headed out,” Nat says.  She turns toward the group of rescued miners and informs them that there’s a cadre of police cars outside the warehouse and a little ways down the hill. They should be safe now, and the regular police corps will take over from here, helping the miners and arresting the injured HYDRA agents. 

 

“And we’re done.  We’re leaving,” she adds to Steve.  “Did you lose your comm, too?  God, you’re a mess today.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says absently.  He tries to plug his brain back in against the throbbing backbeat.  “That was it?  Just those two guys?”

 

“Looks like it,” Nat says.  “But with the lack of tech and stuff in their hideout, I’m wondering if they were just some weirdo sympathizers instead of actual HYDRA operatives.”

 

“Hm.”  The glossy black Hummer that’d driven them out of DC and into Appalachia is waiting, burning fuel as it idles in a gravel driveway.  Steve opens the door and flops gratefully onto the richly cushioned backseat.  The air conditioning is blasting, and Steve positions his head so he’s in the direct path of the breeze.  It dries the sheen of sickly sweat on his forehead, making him feel better for all of one moment.

 

The drive from rural Virginia back to the DC Metro area is set to take a couple hours.  At first the prospect of lounging across the roomy backseat is appealing.  All Steve wants to do is rest.  But when the Hummer starts bumping down the hilly terrain toward the main road, Steve has to clamp his teeth together so his head doesn’t flop off and start rolling across the floor.

 

Nat’s tapping on an iPad, getting a head start on the mission report paperwork and playing Angry Birds.  At least, that’s what Steve thinks she’s playing.  The squawking sound effects seem somewhat familiar.  Waves of sleepiness compete with nausea washing over Steve’s head and chest.  He leans the side of his head against the cool glass of the window and lets his eyes drift shut.

 

“You alright?” Nat asks, jolting Steve back into painful awareness.

 

“Hm?  Yeah,” Steve says, trying to swallow the vertigo that’s loping from his forehead down to his lap.  “Just tired.”

 

“I didn’t think it was that strenuous.”  She’s talking about the mission.  “Did you not sleep last night or something?  Bucky keeping you up?” 

 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, still trying to work out the shift in topic and decode what Nat just said.

 

“Good stuff or bad stuff?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Were you guys boning or dealing with nightmares?”

 

“What the— geez, Nat, I don’t talk about that stuff.”  How the hell did the conversation morph to include his sex life?  He’s not firing on all cylinders.  Something’s definitely wrong. 

 

Steve’s had a concussion before.  All this, the severe headache, the mental fog, the tiredness, the strong urge to puke, is dreadfully familiar.  There’s nothing to be done except lie down and throw up and feel stupid while someone asks inane questions about the president and the date and things Steve still has trouble with even when he’s feeling fine.  He just wants to go home.

 

Steve does his best to stay awake for the duration of the drive.  The sound effects from Nat’s game and his own nausea do a good job of keeping him from drifting off, but the soft rumble of the Hummer’s engine is a difficult lullaby to resist.  By the time they’re rumbling past the shops and neighborhoods of Falls Church, Steve’s barely holding onto his consciousness and his stomach.

 

He wants more than anything to be home, and it would be just too much to drive by the townhouse and go on to SHIELD.  “Hey,” Steve says, swallowing down bile and raspiness.  “Can we…can you drop me off at my house?”

 

The agent driving the Hummer turns his head to look at Steve, obviously perplexed by the unconventional request. 

 

“Why?  You have to debrief, see medical, finish up the mission paperwork,” Nat says.

 

“Yeah, I…I’ll come back in a little bit,” Steve forces out.  “It’s just…Buck’s got an appointment.  I forgot about it till now.  He wanted me to go with him…”  It’s a complete lie, but Steve’s desperate. 

 

“You are so weird today,” Nat sighs, shaking her head.

 

The driver seems to take pity on him, though, and asks where to turn off.  Steve directs him to the complex of townhomes, then lets out an exhale of relief when the huge, thundering car pauses at the end of his driveway. 

 

“Thanks,” Steve says.  “I’ll, uh, see you soon.”  He had told Nat he’d come back, right?  He doesn’t exactly remember…

 

“You better,” Nat replies.  Then, somewhat softer, “I’ll call you.”

 

“Yeah, ok,” Steve mumbles.  He grabs his shield and opens the car door, gripping it tightly as he steps onto the concrete of the driveway, which may or may not be moving under his boots.

 

Steve fumbles in his pocket for his keys and shakily unlocks the front door.  The Hummer is speeding away down the road, and Steve’s relieved it’s going.  His stomach is wedged so far up his throat he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold it down for the next minute as he gets into the house. 

 

Sweat beads up on what feels like every inch of his face and body.  Steve feels the knob turn in his hand, and he nearly walks into the flat of the grey painted door because he can’t get it open fast enough. 

 

“Hey,” he hears Bucky call from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. 

 

Steve’s on the point of replying, but when he opens his mouth, a gag and a rush of undigested stomach contents beat down the words.  He reaches for the wall and braces himself, doubled over, as he vomits all over the doormat.

 

“The fuck?”  Bucky’s footsteps pound around the corner and into the entryway, and he’s quickly at Steve’s shoulder, supporting his trembling form.  “What happened?”

 

“God, my head,” Steve exhales, trying to push his stomach back down to its normal location.  He fails miserably and his throat goes into contraction again. 

 

“Ok,” Bucky soothes, sidestepping the puddle of sick and peeling Steve away from the wall.  “Do you wanna come into the bathroom, maybe?”

 

“No, I’m…I’m ok,” Steve breathes heavily and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping he’s finished retching for the moment. 

 

“Alright, well, at least come lie down,” Bucky says.  “Do you think you can handle the stairs?”

 

“Probably,” Steve says, trying to give off more confidence than he actually feels. 

 

“Ok, come on.”  Bucky’s metal arm wraps securely around Steve’s waist, and they start slowly up the stairs.  Steve grips the railing tightly, and he feels the whole thing shaking with the tremor in his body.  Or maybe it’s just his unsteady brain playing tricks.

 

Once in the bedroom, Steve immediately flops onto the end of the bed, letting his body rest horizontally while his feet remain on the floor. 

 

Bucky starts unlacing his boots, tugging gently and asking, “Alright.  What happened?  You were fine this morning.”

 

“I think I…got hit.  In the head,” Steve whispers, drawing his hands up over his face. 

 

“What?  And medical released you, even though you’re barfing all over the place?”

 

Steve lets the words sink in.  “Sorry,” he rasps.  Then, “I…haven’t been yet.”

 

“Why?  You need medical attention.”  Bucky finishes removing Steve’s boots and starts looking for the zipper to release him from his suit. 

 

“They’re not gonna do anything for a concussion…” Steve mutters, tossing his arm over his eyes to block out the light.  “Just need to…be sick for a couple hours.  I’ll be fine.”

 

“You’re concussed?” Bucky says, concern melding with surprise.

 

“I think so,” Steve replies.  He massages between his eyes, but it only succeeds in bringing the underlying current of nausea up to the surface.  “Buck, I’m gonna throw up again.”

 

“Hold on a sec,” Bucky says.  He sprints away into the ensuite and returns with the small trash can.  The world tips maddeningly as Steve heaves himself back to sitting and retches into the white plastic bin.

 

“God, I’m sorry,” Steve apologizes on a hitching breath.  He feels like a collection of parts strung together in the most illogical way.  The sweat dripping down his forehead makes his shoulder cramp, which brings an ache to his low back, and then forces another wave of stomach acid up his throat. 

 

“It’s ok,” Bucky soothes, adjusting the trash can in Steve’s limp grip.  “But, are you sure you don’t want to go to medical?  I mean, I can take care of you and all, but…”  He trails off, patting Steve on the back.

 

“It’ll…heal itself up in a few hours.  I’ll be fine by tomorrow morning.”  He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

 

“Hey.”  Bucky softly swats Steve’s shoulder.  “Don’t do that.  I’ll get you something to clean up with.”

 

“Ok.”  Steve releases the trash can to the floor and watches it settle between his feet. 

 

The washcloth is cool on his face and neck.  The breeze of the air conditioning bites into his clammy skin when Bucky helps him out of his suit.  The bed pillows are soft under his head, but there must be a rock or something right below them.  Perhaps it’s under the mattress, or pressing up through the foundation of the house…

 

“Hey, wake up for a second,” Bucky says.  He lightly massages Steve’s shoulder.  “How do you feel?”

 

“Nauseous.”

 

“Do you want to throw up, or try to answer some questions?”

 

“God.  Neither.”  Steve tries to turn onto his side, but his stomach threatens mutiny, and he stays stationary on his back.

 

“Let’s try for a couple questions,” Bucky encourages.  “Who’s the president of the United States?”

 

“Do you know who’s the president of the United States?” Steve hoarsely mumbles back.

 

“Yeah, I do, but I’m asking you,” Bucky laughs quietly.

 

“Uh…Truman.  I mean, Obama.  But, no, um…Donald…?”  Steve shuts his eyes and scrubs his palm over them. 

 

“What year is it?”  Bucky asks.

 

The bed is a raft, floating on an angrily choppy ocean.  “I think…” Steve swallows thickly.  “I’d rather throw up.”

 

The next thing Steve knows, the phone is ringing.

 

“Hey, it’s Nat, do you want to talk to her for a sec?” Bucky’s asking him. 

 

“No.”  Steve wants to go back to sleep.  Maybe take some Excedrin.  Or go to town on a bowl of peppermint ice cream.  His mouth tastes terrible.

 

“Naw, he’s ok.  Kind of sick and a little confused, but he’s already pulling himself back together.”

 

Steve blinks.  Or, at least he thinks he does.  The bedroom is much darker than it was, and the cool glow of moonlight sifts in through the curtained window. 

 

Bucky’s lying on his stomach, his arm tucked around Steve’s chest and his chin resting lightly on Steve’s shoulder.  The strong scent of pine-sol hangs in the air.  “Hey,” he whispers when he sees Steve’s eyelids flutter.  “You were talking in your sleep a little bit.”

 

“Huh?”  Steve grunts.  “What about?”

 

“I get knocked down or something like that.”

 

“Oh.”  Steve can’t fight the smile that’s spreading across his face.  He presses his palm over his forehead, cooling the lingering headache and attempting to force his thoughts into an intelligible order.  “That song.  It’s been stuck in my head.”

 

“That’s funny,” Bucky chuckles.  “Only you’d be enough of a punk to get a concussion and start singing about it.”

 

“Shut up.”  Steve weakly shoves Bucky’s metal shoulder.

 

“You feel better?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve replies.  “Not completely great, but I don’t think my head’s going to fall off now.”

 

“Well, I guess that’s an improvement.”  Bucky laughs again.  “How’s your stomach?”

 

Steve considers for a moment.  The slightly seasick feeling that accompanies any bad headache remains pressing slightly into his temples.  But it’s such an upgrade from the gale force of sickly vertigo from earlier that it hardly rates.  “Pretty good, I think,” Steve says.  Then, “Sorry you had to clean up so much.”

 

“It’s no problem,” Bucky says.  “I’m just relieved you’re back in your right mind.  You had me a little worried there.”

 

“I’m ok.”

 

“Yeah.  Good thing, too,” Bucky murmurs, lifting his head up from Steve’s shoulder.  “Now, you wanna come downstairs and get something to eat, or are you gonna demand bedside service?”

 

“Well, you’re pretty good at the whole bedside service thing, but then you’d leave me up here…”  Steve ruffles his fingers through Bucky’s hair. 

 

“I know you still don’t feel good,” Bucky says.  “You’re clingy.”

 

“Is that really a bad thing, though?”

 

“No,” Bucky smiles.  “Not at all.”


End file.
